Eight – The Secret
It was hot enough to make a lizard sweat and even hotter than that down in the hole.
“I’m beat, Mayor,” Flory Rand gasped, leaning his weight on his little saddle shovel. “Can somebody else take over a spell?”
Standing grim-faced around the deepening grave, Carbrook nodded to Big Henry Peck. Peck took Rand’s shovel and got into the hole with Buck Tanner and started to dig. Flory Rand climbed out and sat down against the trunk of the live oak that would be Olan Fletcher’s marker. The fat cowboy was panting like a dog running rabbits in mid-summer with the sweat oozing from the flesh on his face and neck and trickling down upon his pale blue shirt turning it several shades darker. He sat there for a while too licked and hot even to speak.
Nobody else spoke either.
The steady thud of the shovels reassured the hens that had scattered under the building when the posse had come in and they emerged again to stare curiously across at the live oak where all the men were gathered. One of them came to the deep brown stains in the sand near the other tree where Fletcher had fallen. It scratched listlessly then bent its long neck and looked at its scrawls, neither surprised nor angry at not having dug up a worm. Another chicken began singing in the heat, drooping its wings until the tips dragged on the sand. A posse man tossed a rock and the singing ceased.
Finally the hole was deep enough. Four men hefted the sheet-wrapped shape and lowered it in. The shovels worked again. When the grave was filled everybody uncovered while the mayor said the right words.
When Carbrook was through, he replaced his hat and lit a cheroot with fingers that weren’t quite steady. He looked at the dark, twisted face of Surprising Smith standing at his elbow, then at the men standing around Olan Fletcher’s raw grave.
He said, “Well, do you still want to head back to town?”
The posse men exchanged silent glances. They were saddle sore, unshaven and weary-eyed. An hour back when they’d paused to spell the horses before reaching the Circle C, some had talked about quitting but the very ones who’d looked the most exhausted then, seemed to be the most grim now after seeing what had happened to Olan Fletcher.
“I say we go on,” Jesse Morgan said abruptly. It had been Morgan who’d been first to suggest they quit.
A rumble of hard voices rose in agreement. By butchering Olan Fletcher that way, Ben Sprod had done himself a bad turn. The brutal murder had reminded every man there that they couldn’t quit now that they were finally camped on his trail.
Carbrook grunted in approval and mounted up. They followed him out across the yard, once again scattering the fat hens. Once clear of the yard, Surprising Smith rode out ahead to pick up the killers’ sign once again.
“You know, my daddy was a preacher of sorts,” Sweet Shirley confided.
“Do tell,” Brazos, said noncommittally.
“Yeah...the sort to make you want to throw your Bible away.”
“I know the sort.”
Silence fell again, the silence that comes to all bordellos in summer’s midday heat, whether they be rough little clapboard shacks, or a fine new palace of sin like Belle Shilleen’s.
The ground floor parlor where Brazos sat taking ease from the outside heat with six of Belle’s girls was quite the plushest room he’d ever been in. Some thirty feet long by twenty wide, it was carpeted wall-to-wall with a rich red Brussels pile that shone with a soft luxurious gleam under the lamps that burned as bright at noon as at midnight. There were velvet-covered settees, plush divans, fine drapes and curtains. Large gilt-framed paintings of bouncing, naked ladies adorned dark blue walls, and in pride of place in one corner stood the new steam piano.
Until today, one piano had been much the same as another to Hank Brazos, but not now. He knew all about Belle Shilleen’s piano, for he’d just spent the entire morning helping Benedict erect the pipes that would make it go.
Benedict had been somewhat annoyed when Brazos had arrived at Belle’s almost on his heels three hours back, but once he realized he meant to stay around, he’d promptly put him to work. The work had comprised laying pipes from the boiler-room of Belle’s old establishment next door, across the backyard and under the floor of the new building to connect up with the piano’s fittings. Belle had intended going to the expense of setting up a steam machine inside the new premises, but Benedict, with some professional advice from laundry-man Willy Wong who knew all about steam, had devised this alternative.
They’d stoked up the sturdy boilers next door after they got the pipes linked up and now the piano worked perfectly. As long as the boiler fire was kept going, the piano would play twenty-four hours a day if needed and would save Belle the considerable cost of employing a player. That saving, Benedict estimated, would pay for the cost of the piano within a year.
Brazos hadn’t minded the work, but the whole business had made him even more curious about why Benedict was going out of his way to do so much for Belle Shilleen. If Benedict were about right now he’d try and find out, but while he’d been sluicing off the sweat of his labor, in the tub out back, Duke and Belle had disappeared upstairs.
Seated rather gingerly on an ornate little chair that he wasn’t quite sure was up to holding him safely, Brazos glanced up at the clock above the gleaming bar which ran the full length of one wall. It was nearly one. They’d been up there a hell of a long time.
He turned to Shirley lounging nearby, almost dressed in something made of filmy chiffon. “They still upstairs?”
“Guess so, big boy.”
He looked at the ceiling. “What the hell they doin’ you reckon?”
If he’d thought twice before saying that he wouldn’t have said it. He realized his mistake when all the girls laughed. “Now what do you think they’re doing, big boy?” Floralee said huskily. “Playing blackjack maybe?”
They laughed afresh at Floralee’s wit. Draped limply but alluringly about the beautiful new room in various stages of dress or undress, each one of the six girls was quite attractive—something that was by no means usual in places of this nature. There was Kitty Kellick, a tall and slender girl from Ohio, Mexican Rita with slumberous eyes and an enchanting accent, redheaded and curvaceous Sweet Shirley, little blonde Floralee from the East, wide-eyed Babby Betty seventeen years old if she was that, and the prettiest of them all, long-legged Gypsy. The girls weren’t expecting any clients at this time of day and normally would be resting upstairs so as to be fresh for tonight. But it was hot upstairs, and besides that, Hank Brazos was down here.
Duke Benedict’s ‘friend’ intrigued the employees of Belle Shilleen’s. He was nowhere near as handsome as Duke Benedict and he had no more smooth manners then a hen has teeth. Even so, each girl present was disturbingly aware of the aura of vitality he seemed to radiate. Hank Brazos might be rough around the edges, but the girls of Belle Shilleen’s found those shoulders quite fascinating, the half-innocent, half-wicked blue eyes disturbing, and something exciting just in the way he talked, real lazy and deep like that, way down in the chest.
Throughout the morning, particularly when he’d been working out the back without his shirt, several of the girls had attempted to entice him to take a break upstairs. Brazos had declined amiably enough, and though he’d convinced them that he wasn’t here looking for romance, they were still enjoying just sitting around looking at him.
At another time Hank Brazos might have been more susceptible to so much temptation. After all it wasn’t every day a saddle tramp found himself surrounded by such vast areas of plump, soft flesh, alluring eyes, red lips and low, husky voices with the devil in them. But today he had other things on his mind—like what in hell Benedict was up to here?
Another ten minutes passed. Brazos began to get restless as he always did when too long indoors. He finally excused himself with a grunt and went out. He walked down the red-carpeted hallway to the back porch, leant against the wall and built himself a smoke.
He was half-way through his cigarette
when long-legged Gypsy followed him out. The girl studied him thoughtfully as he stood with one scuffed boot propped up behind him, then crossed to the little white-painted railing and leant gracefully back against it.
“A penny for them, big boy?”
“Huh?”
“Your thoughts... you know?”
Brazos puffed on his weed, didn’t reply. He wasn’t in a talking mood but that didn’t seem to worry her any.
He soon found out why; Gypsy had something on her mind.
“What sort of friends are you and good-lookin’ Duke, big boy?” she said suddenly.
That jolted him out of his broody mood. “How’s that again, Gypsy?”
Smooth shoulders shrugged. “You and Duke Benedict. You said earlier that you and him are old friends.”
“Well, mebbe I didn’t exactly mean old friends. Let’s just say we know each other.”
“Oh.” Gypsy’s face fell.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh nothin’ much I guess. I just figured that if you and Duke were good friends I might...” Her voice trailed away.
“Might what?” Brazos persisted, crossing to her. He could see she was clearly troubled about something. “What’s on your mind, Gypsy?”
The girl eyed him thoughtfully for a long moment before speaking with sudden determination.
“Maybe I’m speakin’ out of turn, big boy, but I reckon somebody’s got to. We all like good-lookin’ Duke, and I guess we like the cut of your rig, too. I don’t want to see either of you boys get yourselves hurt, specially when you don’t know what you’re lettin’ yourselves in for.”
“You still ain’t makin’ sense, little gal.”
“All right, I’ll try and make sense then. Good-lookin’ Duke has taken a shine to Belle, right?”
“Seems so.”
“It sure does. Well the truth of it is, Belle’s already got herself a feller.”
“She has? Benedict never said nothin’ about that as I recall.”
“I reckon he wouldn’t have, on account he wouldn’t know.”
“You mean Belle’s kept it to herself? Well, that’s a lady’s right I guess.”
“You still don’t get the idea, big boy.” Gypsy’s pale, pretty face was very serious now as she looked up at him. “You see Belle’s old beau is a badman, a gunman and a killer. If he was to show up kinda unexpected, and find Belle and your friend Duke holdin’ hands, he’d just as likely let fly first and ask questions later. Now do you get me?”
Brazos certainly did. He looked up at the ceiling, then said, “You want that I warn Benedict off?”
“Well, he might take notice of you, if you’re pards.”
Brazos rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know if he would or not. The Yank don’t scare easy. Say, what’s this badman’s handle anyway, Gypsy?”
The girls’ eyes dropped quickly. “I don’t see how that’s important.”
“It could be if I am to convince the Yank he’s treadin’ dangerous.”
Gypsy looked up at him levelly. “Okay, I guess you’re right, big boy. But keep this to yourself, will you? This is somethin’ only the girls really know about and it wouldn’t do Belle or anybody else any good to have the whole town know the truth.” She took a deep breath. “Belle’s feller is Bo Rangle, big boy. No doubt you’ve heard about him?”
Hank Brazos had a brief impression of time standing still. He lifted his cigarette to his mouth to disguise his reaction to her words, but his hand was not quite steady.
“Some boyfriend, Gypsy,” he said softly. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, you understand I’m only confidin’ in you so’s you’ll try and get Duke to ease off Belle, don’t you, big boy? You won’t spread it around?”
“You can trust me, Gypsy.”
“Well, Bo and Belle got to be lovers during the war. After it was over, Bo came back to rest up here a spell. He had money and he and Belle decided to go into partnership and build a real bordello that’d give Belle security and Bo a solid investment.”
Brazos couldn’t help a fleeting smile. Not everybody would regard a sporting house as a solid investment.
“Well, they’d just got started,” Gypsy continued, “when things turned sour and the army ran Bo out of the country. Belle was good and mad of course and went right ahead with the buildin’ as much to spite Daybreak as anythin’ else I guess. She really was sweet on Bo.”
“Was?”
“Well, you see Bo ain’t so much as even wrote her a line in I don’t know how long, and I know Belle’s real hurt about it. Matter of fact I got me an idea she’s gone cold on Bo, but that don’t mean he won’t show up again. Nobody knows when Bo Rangle’s liable to show up any place, so I reckon you can see why you better talk with Duke. I’d of tipped him off before but I doubt if he’d pay me any heed. But he might listen to a friend.” She frowned at him. “Say... are you okay, Hank?”
Brazos didn’t reply, for in that moment he could see the whole thing as it was. Suddenly he knew just exactly why Duke Benedict was holding hands with Belle Shilleen and rigging up steam for her goddamn piano and all the rest. He saw it crystal clear and it hit him, where he lived, like a kick in the groin.
“Well I’ll be teetotalling damned,” he breathed, looking up at the ceiling. “That damn Yank. So that’s his game.”
“What do you mean, big boy?” Gypsy said in perplexity. “What game?”
“Never you mind, Gypsy,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You’ve done the right thing, tellin’ me what you have about Bo Rangle.”
“You’re goin’?” Gypsy looked surprised as he went down the steps. “But what about Duke and—?”
“I’ll see him later, Gypsy,” he told her, conscious that he had to get away by himself for a time and figure things out. He slouched across the yard and added, with a hard grin, “You can bet on that.”
Nine – A Game for Two Players
Duke Benedict donned vest and coat and left the room silently, so as not to disturb the sleeping Belle Shilleen. He closed the door softly, sighed, then headed for the stairs, adjusting his cravat. Strange what a man was prepared to do to get what he wanted, he mused, going down the stairs.
But the trouble was, he still hadn’t got what he was after. Belle was still playing coy about Bo Rangle, and it was beginning to annoy him.
The stairway opened into the front parlor. From the doorway, he looked around for a purple shirt. Brazos wasn’t there, just Bob French, the ferrety little barkeep, polishing his glasses, and a couple of bored-looking girls, Floralee and Gypsy Jones.
He didn’t want to see Brazos. Quite the contrary. But he’d been so sure he’d find him waiting for him down here that he was curious enough to ask after him.
“He went back up town,” Gypsy supplied, a little strangely, Benedict thought.
“Reckon we must have been borin’ him,” Floralee opined, with a suggestion of wounded professional pride.
Benedict nodded and went out. This morning he’d thought that Brazos, with suspicions aroused, might mean to dog him every minute. It seemed now that that was not the case, and that was a bit of a break. Benedict was having problems enough without the big Reb adding to them.
The rooftops of Daybreak shimmered in the heat haze as the gambler headed along Johnny Street. It was mid-afternoon and the orange glare of the sun after the cool gloom of Belle’s room started his head to throbbing again. The back of his head was still tender where he’d hit the floor of the Bird Cage last night in that most undignified ruckus, and he was still a trifle overhung. All this added to his failure to make appreciable headway with Belle, was making him feel testy.
But if there was anything Duke Benedict knew better than another, it was that a little romance invariably bucked him up when he was feeling low, and his thoughts were on romance now as he headed for the Bird Cage. Rather convenient, Mr. Surprising Smith taking off with the posse, he mused. He wondered how they were getting on with the chase. He was a
little surprised that they hadn’t run out of steam by this, and come home.
His spirits rose the moment he stepped inside the saloon. He’d been thinking of her all day long, even while entertaining Belle, and there she was. The sight of long silken legs crossed, a black feather boa slung gracefully around slender shoulders and a warming change of expression when she saw him walking towards her stopped his headache dead in its tracks.
“Why, good afternoon, Duke. Funny, but I was just sitting here thinking about you. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Nobody as impossibly beautiful as you can ever buy Duke Benedict a drink,” he said, taking off his hat with a flair that made Honey Smith’s fickle heart beat fast. “Barkeep!” he called. “A bottle of your best bourbon and two glasses.”
Her lips were like wine, and he simply had to taste them again.
“You’re a very forward man, Duke baby,” she murmured, running a slender finger down his jawline. “Has anybody ever told you that before.”
“Never,” he assured her as they headed for the stairs that led to the rooms above. “Most women of my acquaintance in fact, complain that I’m a little shy and backward.”
She laughed deliciously, hiccupped, laughed again. Twilight was falling outside and it was gloomy in the rear passageway of the saloon. They’d spent two very pleasant hours together over their bourbon and the day wasn’t over yet. He’d promised Belle he’d be at her place tonight, but that was in the future. This was now, the very romantic present...
They almost stumbled over the big figure seated on the bottom stair. Honey shrieked. Benedict grabbed a gun, then let it go as he recognized the big figure uncoiling to his feet.
“Why howdy-do there, Mrs. Smith, ma’am. And howdy-do to you, Yank.”
Duke Benedict let fly with a couple of expletives he most definitely hadn’t picked up at college.
“What in hell do you think you’re playing at, Brazos?” he snarled. “You’re liable to stop a slug, bobbing up on a man like that.”
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